


The Itch

by randomling



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M, Magic Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-02
Updated: 2008-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:25:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomling/pseuds/randomling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JC's been dreaming - but who's he been dreaming of?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Turn Your Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ravenbat](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ravenbat).



He has the dream again on the plane.

It doesn't get any less weird, that's for sure. It's the things he knows that he shouldn't – which store the roses came from, the route he took to get here – and the things he doesn't know that he should. The cold winter air on his neck, when he's been sweltering all day in LA. Sunset light, pink and orange, slanting through the crack in the curtains. It's so clear; he could write a song about it.

This time, JC is facing the window. He can see the other man out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt off. JC wants to turn his head, to see his face, but it's always the same. It's like there's a weight on his neck, holding him in place, staring out of the window at the bare branches of an oak tree.

In the dreams, they don't talk. Sometimes they sit there, not looking at each other, silence heavy in the air. Other times, there's a bedspread thick and soft underneath him, and the other man's body warm above him, all hands and tongue, and JC doesn't dare open his eyes for fear of waking up. He always does wake up, gasping, far too soon. Once there was the slamming of a door, and a quiet noise, just like someone, someone he knows, makes in his throat when he's annoyed, and JC was almost there, almost, almost knew who it was, and then he woke up with a start, feeling like he wanted to reach deep into his brain and _scratch._

It's every night now, every time he dozes off in a cab; every time he closes his eyes, he's back there. The hotel room, the sunset, the oak tree and _him._ And no words. No words at all.

JC's finally jolted awake as the plane starts its descent. He stares out of the window at Roanoke, Virginia, as they come in to land.

***

He rents a car to get to the hotel, mostly to avoid falling asleep again on the way there. Driving feels good, wakeful, normal, but it's still there, in the back of his mind, the itch he can't scratch. It's the who-why-what-the-hell that's been rolling around his head for the past two months: lazily at first, then gathering momentum and speed, like a hamster rattling its wheel faster and faster.

Round and round. He feels, just a little, like he's going crazy. Because it's not insane, not at all, to fly to Nowheresville, Virginia, on the basis of a recurring dream. It's not insane that he's driving down unfamiliar streets, but he doesn't need a map or directions – left turn here, third right, left again into the parking lot – to get where he's going. He just knows. He's a salmon swimming home.

He chokes down a laugh at himself – _so_ corny – before stopping the car. Getting out, cold wind hits him hard on the back of the neck, and he turns up the collar of his jacket automatically before blinking at himself. It's sense-memory that's not. Dream-memory. Winter cold: no snow, but the crunch of ice under his feet. He heads for the hotel door, pushing his way into a blast of warm air and an old-fashioned reception hall, all flocked wallpaper and floral carpeting, where a middle-aged woman looks up at him expectantly.

She doesn't seem to recognize him at all, which, thank God. Explaining even half of this to a curious fan would be ten kinds of fun.

He smiles at her, and she smiles back, and they share professional facades quite easily as he says, "I'd like to rent a room, please."

She looks down at her computer as he approaches the desk. "Single or double?"

He thinks back to the dream and says, "Double," before shaking his head to clear it. Stupid. "Is Room 418 free?"

She hits a couple of buttons and consults her screen again. "I'm sorry, sir. 418 is taken today. Would you like the next-door room? I can give you 416 or 420."

"By who?" says JC, blinking.

"I'm sorry?"

"Who's renting Room 418?" He's already digging for his wallet – it's just _wrong._ He needs that room tonight, it's got to be tonight. Maybe whoever it is will take some cash to switch rooms.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," the receptionist says, "I can't give out information about our guests."

JC blinks and snaps himself back to reality, putting the professional smile back on again. "Of course. I'm sorry. I'll take whatever."

***

He ends up on the 4th floor anyway, room 407, and he's on the wrong side of the building. He can't see the bare oak tree, or even the sunset: the window faces north. He lies on the bed, and it's all wrong, he shouldn't be here, lying on an empty double bed at four in the afternoon, staring out the window at the expanse of parking lot and the slate-grey sky. He should be in another room, where the sun is setting, and someone is waiting for him.

The itch is back, niggling uncomfortably in his head. Round and round.

He could kick something. He's close, he's _so_ close, but he's missing the key. The vibe isn't right, the atmosphere or something: darkness is already closing in. The moment's passing, and he's doing _nothing,_ just _lying_ here and waiting for something that isn't going to happen. In the dream, too, he's doing nothing, and that's wrong too: he's not talking, not responding, not turning his head.

JC closes his eyes. _Turn your head,_ he thinks, _turn your head._

He looks at his watch and only a minute's passed, but it felt like eternity: the weight on his neck, pressing down, pushing, as he tried to turn his head. JC could see him, sitting up, back straight, looking away, but he couldn't do it. He wasn't strong enough.

JC swings his feet off the bed and sits up. If he couldn't do it in the dream...

Turn your head.

***

418 is across the hall and down a few, and JC pads down the carpeted hallway, wearing his socks but no shoes. It didn't even occur to him that 418 is taken, that maybe that's not a bad thing, that maybe there's someone in there, waiting for him. That's where it happens, whatever it is; it's the place.

He should have gone to that store, the one where he's supposed to buy the roses.

Instead, here he is, outside the door. 418. He's cold all of a sudden, winter wind from nowhere on his neck. He raises his hand and knocks. There's no response, and it's not until after he's dropped his hand again that he notices the door's ajar.

He makes a star out of his hand, the way he used to when he was really little, pushing open the door of his parents' bedroom in the middle of the night. It takes a minute, nerves constricting his chest, and he takes a really deep breath and closes his eyes and pushes on the door. Not hard, but hard enough that it gives way under his hand, slides open. He hears the noise as it moves across the thick carpet.

He doesn't dare open his eyes. But he can't close his ears, and he can't not recognize the voice that says, "Is it you?"


	2. Sunset Light

The sun's setting, at long last. It's just like the dream.

Sheer _surprise_ hits him in the chest like a tidal wave, and maybe it's a mistake to try to speak right away. JC opens his mouth, but whatever he's going to say sticks in his throat. He's holding onto the door with both hands now, eyes still closed. Somehow, he doesn't know how, he's sure it's just like the dream. Neither of them is looking at the other. Neither of them dares. Not yet.

JC's fingers tighten on the door and he wonders. Can he do this?

It's so close, _he's_ so close, close enough that JC could walk over and touch him in a second. The itch is there, worse than ever, and JC bangs his head against the door, hard enough to dislodge whatever it is that's holding him back.

Two months. Two months of waiting, and he's almost there, and he can't take the final step.

***

Even back in October, it was always winter in the dream: the bare branches of the tree, the out-of-season roses, the cold wind on the back of his neck. JC still remembers the first time he dreamed of this, how he woke up sore and bewildered and was cranky all day, remembering the strangeness of it.

It's how he knows everything, he thinks. The first time, he was standing by the door, the one that said 418, making a star-shape out of his hand. It was just a moment, but it seemed to last much longer. The twist of nerves in his chest, the sharp in-and-out of his own breath, the wood, cool and hard, under his fingertips. His feet, in socks but no shoes, on thick floral carpets.

And through the crack in the door, sunset light.

***

JC opens his eyes so he can look down at his feet in warm socks but no shoes, and at his fingertips, still in their star-shape on the door. Deliberately, he makes a fist, and then he looks through the open door at the room. At the bed.

At Lance.

He doesn't know how this works. He's known Lance all his adult life, can't imagine a life that doesn't include him, must have talked to him ten or fifteen times in the two months since this started, and never suspected a _thing._ How did he dream of the guy every night, dream of taking him to bed, for the love of God, and never recognize him? He knows Lance's presence like he knows his own, would recognize him at a half-glance across a crowded street, and it never, never clicked. JC feels like kicking himself.

"Hi," he says, and it's not surprise that shows up in his voice, it's wonderment. There's something fairytale-like in this. "Hi," he says again.

Lance finally looks at him, snapping his head around to meet JC's eyes, and the wonderment in JC's voice is reflected on Lance's face.

JC holds onto the door for dear life.

***

This scene has been behind his eyes for so long, it's just plain strange to have it in front of them at last.

At first, he didn't recognize the change: he thought they were just wet dreams, the kind of vague sex dreams he often had when he hadn't gotten laid for a while. It took a few dreams before he noticed the smell of roses, the feel of that hotel bedspread, the cold wind on his bare limbs and the fading light.

It always ends far too soon, but he still knows it's great sex, the kind he loves. Sweet and tender, and just a little tentative at first. He keeps his eyes closed, feeling hands and mouth sliding down his body, warming him through and through.

He always wakes up aching. He wants to follow through and reciprocate and curl up and stay there all night.

***

"Hi," Lance says at last, but he doesn't move, and neither does JC. They just look at each other, and JC can't identify what he's feeling. Underneath the shock? There's a whole lot more shock, and then, somewhere under that, maybe hope.

JC doesn't know what to say, or how this is supposed to go. There are all these fractured images in his head, and he doesn't know if he has to play them out, or how this is supposed to go. The curtains are open, the bare oak tree standing outside. He glances over at the nightstand and there are out-of-season roses in a vase. Lance follows JC's gaze, and his lips quirk into a smile. "What?" says JC.

"I asked the lady at reception where she got the flowers," Lance says.

"Sally's?"

"That's right."

JC smiles too. "Hold on," he says, and crosses the room quickly to close the curtains. He looks at the oak tree before he does, and when he turns back, Lance is laughing, resting his elbows on his knees, bent forward, shoulders shaking.

"This is so weird," Lance says.

"It is," JC agrees. But this has been their crazy lives since day one: weird comes as standard issue. JC goes over and sits next to Lance on the bed. Lance turns his head and looks at JC, still laughing. "Did you ever think...?"

Lance stops laughing and shakes his head. "No, man. But maybe... maybe, I don't know..." He's searching JC's face for _something,_ and JC just meets his eyes, not knowing what to say. "Did you dream it, too?" Lance asks.

"Every night," JC says. He reaches out to touch Lance's hand. Lance takes hold of JC's hand, squeezes it briefly, and then lets go, looking at him seriously. Taking stock. That's Lance, all the time, making an analysis of the situation. "I don't know," JC says, "it's like..."

"An itch you can't scratch?"

And that's the other thing about Lance, JC thinks. He's grinning so hard he thinks he might break his jaw. He and Lance might be about as different as a couple of guys in the same vocal group can be, but they've always gotten each other. They talk in the same images and live the same language, and this time the dream's the connection, and the single beam of light on the carpet right now is the same one JC's been seeing in his sleep for the past two months.

JC's still grinning; Lance is smiling, looking pleased and expectant and warm.

Lance lifts his hand and scratches JC's cheek, just gently, with one fingernail. JC leans forward to kiss him, and for a little while now, touch will be the only language they need.


End file.
